


The Arrythmic Rhythm of Her

by Rinari7



Series: Koreth and Vera [11]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Charr (Guild Wars), F/M, Fantastic Prejudice, Gen, Medical Procedures, Necromantic Healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28558329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinari7/pseuds/Rinari7
Summary: The medic at the workstation next to his won't stop humming.
Series: Koreth and Vera [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/478408
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	The Arrythmic Rhythm of Her

**Author's Note:**

> This... doesn't quite belong in the Koreth and Vera series, not really, but I'm including it because the Koreth is the same.  
> Rating for some light thirst (author's queerness shimmering through, whoops... >:3).

She worked at the station next to his, her quiet hums and unintelligible words and sympathetic growls and singing-under-her-breath floating over to him. It almost irritated him, his ears twitching to discern the words as he mixed an antidote or stitched a shoulder. The camp itself was loud, but something about the incessant non-rhythm of her… Then he looked over, really looked, gulping a drink of water between patients, and saw she was chanting a spell, pushing and melding a new tendon into some poor soldier’s heel. Her murmurs itched far less in his ears after that.

It was a little difficult not to feel inadequate, next to her. He got the cases of vomiting, bloodshot eyes and yellow skin, the flesh wounds that only needed a bandage, a few stitches, a week’s rest. Soldiers were carried to her station, pale as the snow or so injured he might have sworn their fighting days were at an end, and yet they walked back out — stumbled, sometimes, after several hours of that rising-falling-hoarsening chanting, but walked out on their own two feet nonetheless. True, he wasn’t a full-fledged medic, more like an aide given the amount of formal medical training he’d had, and even as a trained medic he’d never be able to perform the miracles that magic could. His work was important, too, he reminded himself. Still, he could never quite parse whether it was threads of awe, envy, or his own inadequacy snaking through him, when he caught a glimpse of her work.

She peered around the makeshift partition, one day, bottle in hand, after a particularly long “surgery.” “Hey,” was all she said, at first, tipping the bottle to her lips. From the faint whiff he caught, it was something a good deal more caustic than Blood’s usual firewater. 

That assessment must have shown on his face, because she tipped her head back and laughed, her voice rough in a way that sent a pleasant shock to his toes and tailtip. “Don’t worry, Gray-mane, I wasn’t planning on sharing.”

He huffed softly, nostrils flaring with the exhalation, trying not to compare her cadence to Vera’s fond nickname. “It’s Lunarfang, actually.”

“I know.” She turned her head, to regard him out of one eye, and took another swig. “But I figured ‘Graymane’ was a lot better than ‘Poisoner.’” She wrinkled her nose. “‘Venommaster’? I’ll work on it.”

“Or you could just call me by my name. It’s ‘Koreth, if ‘Lunarfang’ is too pedestrian for you.” His stocks of lemon peel and salamander root were getting low, he noticed. His shift wasn’t over yet, though thankfully the last of the latest wave of the injured were being taken care of. He switched on the small gas burner at his workstation, the igniter flicking off sparks until the flame caught. He set a small beaker with a prepared mixture of mint, aloe, milk, honey, and iceleaf atop the burner, and set about chopping more mint. You could never have enough burn salve when Iron and Flame were in the field.

“Definitely too pedestrian for me.” He glanced back at her, as she ran her tongue over her teeth and shot him a grin. “The name’s Fiana Spiritcleave, though I also seem to go by ‘freak,’ ‘witch,’ and ‘that creepy healer.’” Her smile turned hard, a bitter tang to her words. “Feel free to make up your own nicknames, though I’ll only answer if I like them.” A muted warning lurked there, darkness flashing in her green eyes.

Koreth shook his head. “Relax. I know your name, Spiritcleave. And unlike some Bloodbrains, I don’t give a flaming fuck about your magic, just the results.” He offered her a hint of a smile. “Figured you might’ve been assigned to my tent to make sure the poison specialist didn’t, well, poison anyone.” It was a bit of a double-edged sword: obviously he was excellently equipped to help deal with the fallout from the poisoned food supplies, but that didn’t mean he didn’t also garner wary glances. He couldn’t blame them — trust was hard to come by these days.

She huffed and narrowed her eyes at him. “It figures the one who can stand me is Ash.”

“Didn’t think Blood really trained necromancers,” he offered. “Though I have seen a few running around with greatswords and roaring, so maybe that’s changed.”

“I wasn’t trained by Blood,” she replied, tipping her bottle back again.

He met her gaze and held it. Multitudes swirled in the black of her eyes, betrayed only by a twitch of her cheek, a flutter of her lashes: weariness, longing, loneliness, and a hardened, prickly, dangerous discipline.

It was an expression he’d worn himself on several occasions, he was sure. He didn’t pry.

“I know your ingredients are a bit different from mine —” he’d done his best not to balk as the butcher’s assistant had delivered a platter of tendons and livers and hearts and cartilage with a skeptical grimace — “but if you do need anything, just ask.”

She took a moment to assess him, guarded, then she flicked her tail, lowered her shoulder, and examined his workbench. “I’ve never been one to take a lot of interest in plants, but if I need to do something more elaborate…I could probably find a symbolic use for a few of these.” She trailed a claw over a sprig of liverwort, then glanced back at him. “They’re better used in your salves and tonics, I think, though I appreciate the offer.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

She dipped her head, watching him through her lashes. “I’ll see you around… ‘specialist.’” Mischief glinted in her eyes, nearly obscuring that cold-forged armor behind it.

“I’m sure you will.” He observed her out of the corners of his eyes as she made her way out of the cluster of medical tents, towards Blood’s barracks in the camp. Even now, among the “United Legions,” each kept more or less to their own. Damned shame, that: old habits wouldn’t be broken in a matter of weeks, or eve months, but they’d never be broken if no one tried to break them. Letting Ruinbringer’s betrayal bruise already tenuous, fraught bonds only made the Legions weaker — even if he could understand the hostility towards Flame and Blood, Iron licking their wounded morale, Ash’s open secrets sowing cracks in this alliance forged only in the wake of a common traitor.

At least his colleague seemed amenable to inter-Legion socialization, in principle — she could hardly help which bedroll she was assigned.

She greeted him the next day with a tired nod, tail drooping, mug of dark tea in her hand steaming in the crisp morning air.

His patient, already looking a little green, shuddered. “I’ve gotta say, Doc, I’m glad I’m your patient. When I was sent to this tent, I thought…” The artillerist trailed off, grimacing.

Koreth’s colleague grimaced equally in response, rolled her eyes, and disappeared behind the partition. Her voice came wafting over it, though. “Don’t worry, soldier, I’m more of a surgeon than an herbalist. You lose that trigger finger or loading arm, then we’ll talk.”

Koreth flicked his tail in her direction. “No need to antagonize the patients, Spiritcleave.”

“Not antagonizing, Poison-paw. Just stating a fact.”

“If you’re going to keep making up names for me instead of using my actual name, at least try to them _not_ sound like a cub’s first ‘bandname idea.”

She _tsk_ ed, peering over the partition for a moment. “For shame, _specialist_ , ‘Poisonpaw’ is a perfectly good ‘bandname for a Charr of any age.”

He quirked a brow at her.as she disappeared from view again. “It’s still not mine.”

“I know!” she called back, sounding a bit brighter now. At least her teasing was good for something.

He rolled his eyes, turned back to his burner. The queasy artillerist reclining on his patients’ pallet glanced between him and her partition, and back again. “You want to fuck her, don’t you?” he murmured, quiet and accusatory.

Koreth flicked his ears back, his long-honed poise serving him well, careful to give no outward sign as he considered his answer. “And so what if I did?” He kept his voice neutral, casual, but a warning edge lurked in his tone. “She’s pretty, and a damn skilled healer, and I’m sure she could demolish my tail or yours if she wanted to — or just stop your heart, nothing more elegant. So I don’t see why anyone _wouldn’t_ find her attractive.” He’d pay for this in some way, he was sure, but he didn’t have to play a role here.

His patient eyed him for several moments more, silent, and drank the tonic Koreth gave him without further comment.  
“Here’s a second dose for this evening, and take it easy on the stomach the next several days.” This area didn’t have the prey population or a robust enough supply infrastructure to support two enormous Charr armies; the chefs were doing what they could, of course, but far too many soldiers were getting “creative” with what they found among the local flora and fauna.

Koreth — and probably his patient and colleague as well — exhaled a quiet sigh of relief as said patient offered Koreth a respectful nod and finally walked away.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” low, murmured, drifted over their partition.

“I know.”

“I’m not gonna fuck you.” A little tease in her tone to soften the blunt edge.

“I know that, too.” Equally blunt, dry.

“Now that that’s cleared up —” Her voice softened. “Thanks, Lunarfang. I’ll owe you one.”

He shook his head. “You don’t need to, but I won’t turn a favor down.” A small smirk. “If I knew _that_ was all it took to get you to use my name…”

“Don’t push your luck, Specialist.”

He half-laughed, half-sighed, and huffed amused-exasperated. “That’s… not my title.”

“I know.” He could hear the cheeky grin in it.

She began to hum in the back of her throat, and they both turned to their work.


End file.
